Page 6 of The Version You Hide

I don’t know a lot about Jade. Only that she comes into the tavern almost daily, sometimes arriving with Dylan, sometimes leaving with him when his shift ends. If I had to guess, I’d say she was a few years older than him, somewhere in her late twenties.

I huff out a laugh and shrug. “Gotta pass the time here somehow.”

“You’re evil,” she snickers. “I like it.”

“So how do you know Dylan so well?” I ask her.

“Oh, we go way back.” She doesn’t look up from the cocktail menu she flips back and forth in her hand.

Her answer is vague, and I don’t know why it doesn’t satisfy me, but I feel the need to pry further. “Are you his girlfriend or something?”

“Ha! No. Nothing like that. He’s not exactly my type.”

I don’t like the sense of relief that washes over me at hearing this, but it’s quickly replaced by confusion. A chiselled jawline, chestnut eyes, and golden skin stretched over sculpted muscle? I fail to see how Dylan couldn’t be anyone’s type.

Not that he’s my type.

I don’t have a type.

“Don’t get me wrong. He’s cute and all,” she says, as if

she’s read my mind. “But I have a girlfriend.”

“I see.” That explains it, I guess. “Cool. Well, can I get you anything before I head out to lunch?”

“No, thanks. I was just hoping to catch up with Dylan.”

“Sure.” I nod, realising she never really answered my question about their connection. “You want me to go get him for you? He’s in the office.”

The ‘office’ is a glorified storage room out the back with barely enough room to house a desk cluttered with invoices and receipts.

Jade’s mouth opens in answer, but her words are rudely cut off by a deep, agitated voice travelling from the other end of the bar. “Hey! Hello?! What do I have to do to get some service around here?”

I turn around slowly, adrenaline beginning to course through my veins as I come face to face with an intimidatingly angry, muscular man in his thirties dressed in a fluorescent tradesman’s uniform.

He glares at me with mean, dark eyes, but I don’t react. I won’t allow him to see how much his presence bothers me.

Instead, I reply calmly and confidently. “Excuse me?”

“Oh no, excuse me!” he mocks. It takes everything in my power not to flinch as he slams his hands down on the bar, his jaw jutting out in aggressive annoyance. “I’d hate to interrupt your little gossip sesh down there.”

I sense Dylan behind me before I see him in my peripheral, taking long strides down the hall to meet me behind the bar. He comes to a stop next to me, his hands finding their way to his hips as his nostrils flare warily.

“Is there a problem, mate?” He directs his question at the guy, his tone firm but professional.

He has patience. Something I’m lacking.

“I’ve been waiting here five minutes for your bar wench to quit gasbagging with her friend down there.” The man’s brow pulls together in frustration, the vein is his neck now clearly visible as it protrudes out from underneath the stubble on his chin. “What does it take to get a fucking drink around here?”

I should be bothered more by his use of explicit language, but it’s the term ‘bar wench’ that has weirdly aroused a whole new level of anger from within me. Who does this guy think he is?

Dylan tenses beside me, a sign that he’s clearly feeling threatened, but I won’t allow this guy to walk over me. I raise an eyebrow, a bitter smirk twisting my lips.

“Oh no. A whole five minutes?” I say in mock surprise. “I don’t think so, buddy. You literally just walked in.”

“No. I don’t think so,” he replies. His eyes narrow to dark slits as he leans in across the bar. “Bitch.”

Dylan steps in front of me protectively. He holds both hands up in defence, but his professionalism remains. “Excuse me, sir. We don’t tolerate abusive language here. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

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